Monday, March 15, 2010

In my office, each time it's someone's birthday, we photoshop a picture to include the face of our colleague, let's call him Wolf. Wolf is continually transformed into beautiful woman, famous celebrities, ladies with a bit more "girth", and famous athletes. If only each of us could be so lucky...

Friday, March 12, 2010

I would say my crush on Dexter is more comparable to my imaginable love affair with Anthony Bourdain than my brief crush on Bradley Cooper (which wazs ruined when he left Jennifer Aniston for Rene Zellweger - who does that? Ew.)

But then I saw this pic and I reconsidered and think I might have been a bit tough on him...

Thursday, March 11, 2010

Feel free to make this your desktop background. It's mine until Summer starts.

There's nothing worse then getting back into a gym routine. You show up at the gym the first few times and feel pasty, saggy and ill equip to be mounting giant machines for long periods of time. Slowly, you'll gain confidence. But for now, it's all about hating every person with a nice set of abs and trying to secretly squeeze Crisco into their protein shake to make yourself feel better.

You start out by doing the easy stuff - like the elliptical/level 1 or the bike that is basically a video game to distract you from the fact that you're actually working out. You may try to run on the treadmill but find the exertion to interfere with your watching of Millionaire Matchmaker, which always seems to be on the gym televisions. (I heart you, Patty). So you either walk, or make your way over to the stair machine*footnote 1, which I also refer to as "my version of Hell", thinking it's better than running and risking a major treadmill fall. Fortunately, I'm not drunk when I go to the gym like that guy.

****side rant****First of all, all you woman who put makeup on at the gym BEFORE you work out can bite me. I hate you all. Second, I'm trying out this potential new gym, and when did they start staffing live DJ's? If I wanted to go to a dance club I'd be shaking my booty at the nearest gay bar. Third, I've discovered that group exercise classes with my co-workers are ideal because my competitive spirit makes me want to crush every single one of them like a little ant.***side rant ended***

This week, I was highly distressed when taking a class called Fluidity (which I happen to be in the infomercial for, no joke, when I was a few years younger, more agile and pretty buff, if I say so myself). I was doing a stretch where you sit on the floor, stretch one leg out and pull the other one in, while you lift your arms over your outstretched leg and lean over, getting a nice stretch in your lower back and hamstring. While I did this, I realized that I wanted to stretch even further down and out, but I couldn't! My stomach rolls were in the way. They were *physically* prohibiting me from going any further even though my muscles wanted me to!! How devastating a revelation is that?!

Regardless, my foray back into the fitness world has been a bit of a culture shock.

Here's a quiz for you (the answer is provided at the end of this post):

Due to the past few months of rigorous activity that I refer to as "watching Dexter on the couch for 5 hours straight" what of the following has occurred:

a) less focus at workb) fewer come-ons from random strangers with wandering eyesc) more nacho consumption (extra sour cream, please!)d) flabbinesse) I'm a bitch and it's a trick questionf) All of the above

footnote 1 I don't mean a Stairmaster - the pedals that just go up and down - I'm talking about the machine that is actually a set of 4 or 5 steps that rotate. Do you know how many people I've seen fall off this machine? Too many. (well, there's no such thing as *too many* because I live to see people fall, but you catch my drift). Whomever built this torturous piece of machinery should be crushed with it, slowly and painfully.

On a side note, on a scale of 1 to 10, how sad is it that the season premier of Gossip Girl is the highlight of my week?

Tuesday, March 9, 2010

- You write down or photograph the badge number of every cab you take just in case your body is found dead, so the police can trace it back to the killer.

- When the food delivery guy comes to your apartment while you're alone, you turn up the tv and talk to someone who isn't there to make him think there is someone else in the house (therefore preventing him from attacking you).

- Keep a machete under your mattress to ward off intruders (AND think you can actually use it effectively).

- Dream in the first person that you were in an episode of CSI: New York and you're being chased by a man in a clown mask with a chainsaw.

- Cross the street needlessly just to avoid a man that looks a little like Dexter the serial murdering blood spatter analyst.

- Hold your keys in your hand with the pointy end out thinking that you would stand a chance against an attacker with just a puny piece of scrap metal.

- You are convinced that the guy at the dry cleaner is in the mafia and is laundering money using the bags that carry your dirty clothes in and out of the shop. Your evidence: the $20 bill you found in your pant pocket.

- You keep your hair cut short, despite that fact that your guy prefers the Pam Andersen "just sexed up" look, so that no one can grab you from behind.

- You worry that someday the police will think you committed a crime because they found a random strand of hair or hangnail at a crime scene and consider it evidence against you. When in reality your hair just sheds a lot, you have dry cuticles, and you're a girl about town!

- You make your man sleep closer to the bedroom door so that if an intruder breaks in and tries to kill you both he'll get killed first so you have a chance of escaping.

I tried to take some pictures of me looking paranoid and scared, but this is all I got. So have a good laugh.

PS - the pictures of proof positive that I need some Botox, but Mr. T gets very upset when I bring it up. He's paranoid that I'm going to look like Meg Ryan or something. Ugh, my life is so hard sometimes...

Monday, March 8, 2010

If you ever wanted to know what I would look like if I were embodied in a material item, it would be this Fatal Travel Tote by Treesje. (PS - my birthday is next week and I'm taking donations!)

I was having a conversation with Mr. T and his dad (the FIL) yesterday and the FIL brought up Munchausen's syndrome. I was nearly certain that this refers to when a mother tries to get attention by projecting illness on her child (like external hypochondria). The FIL was saying that it is actually the same as hypochondria but in the extreme. We went back and forth about what it really was until Mr. T looked it up on his iPhone. The actually definition (per some fancy medical institution) is:

Munchausen syndrome is a type of factitious disorder, or mental illness, in which a person repeatedly acts as if he or she has a physical or mental disorder when, in truth, they have caused the symptoms.

I realized at that point that 1) I was wrong, and 2) that my ENTIRE basis for thinking I knew what it was came from an Eminem song. My parents always said I should be a lawyer because I can argue anything to death, even stuff I know nothing about...

I think I've been putting a lot of pressure on myself lately to write thoughtful and witty blog entries, rather than just write whatever is on my mind each day (which tends to inherently be random and ridiculous). So I'm vowing to post every day for the next 30-days regardless of my mental state or lack of creativity. Ideas welcome...

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Sassy Two Tweets

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About Me

I am a sass. And sometimes I wear two socks. Sometimes one. I'm also a mommy of two cats, a second wife (to Mr.T), a runner who will never look athletic, a smartypants, a new yorker at heart but masshole by birth, a shopaholic, a boring ex-accountant turned internet exec, a foodie, a watcher of too much crappy tv, a cheese addict (probably the reason I'll never look athletic), and a wine snob. Oh, and I wish I had an afro.
sassytwosocks [at] gmail [dot] com